


Mad About Satin

by Megg33k



Series: Images and Sensations [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fetish, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always had difficulty finding something that would turn him on, so he chose to... turn it all off. Until one day... BAZINGA!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Sordid Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crumbledown (VerbtheAdjectiveNoun)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerbtheAdjectiveNoun/gifts).



> Amber won this commission from me in the Sherlock Committee Fanfic Auction for DashCon 2014. This is based on the prompt she gave me. I hope I've done it justice.
> 
> I expect to see this completed before the end of the week!

Sherlock had never been a very sexual creature, not even in his youth, which isn’t to say he didn’t wish he were. He did. And he tried.

In his more formative years, he even stooped so low as to seek out the things he’d heard whispered about in the locker room. The magazines, however, were abysmal, and the videos were even more wretched. Never would he understand the appeal of watching primates, no matter how aesthetically pleasing, take part in a messy activity that made him feel so very much like an outsider.

And it’s not like he never tried touching himself; of course he did. He wasn’t stupid. That is, after all, what he was _supposed_ to do, right? But he found it to be somewhat… lacking. No one seemed to like him _like that_ , and he, as it turned out, was no exception. Perhaps he would be more inclined under less… ‘normal’ circumstances.

So, being the intuitive boy he was, he began to explore the world of sexual fetish. Obviously voyeurism wasn’t working, but maybe something else would. After leather, shoes, and feet all failed to… trip his trigger, he resigned himself to once again being something other than what the world would call ‘ordinary.’ Not that he wanted to be considered ordinary… well, not most of the time. Maybe just this once, though?

Cue the brief, self-loathing teenager phase of Sherlock ‘No One Understands Me’ Holmes. Luckily for Mycroft and their mother, it didn’t last long. Few things are worse than a stroppy teenager, but the one thing that is most certainly worse is a stroppy teenage Sherlock.  And, out of perceived necessity, the ‘Transport Philosophy’ was soon born.


	2. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds something that affects him in unexpected ways...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... is fun.
> 
> Remember how this used to be projected to be a 3 chapter fic? I lied. Now there's a question mark. Could be 4. Maybe 5. No more than 5, I hope. I'm thinking definitely less than 6. So, 4 or 5. Sorry not sorry.

As Sherlock grew older, his belief in the Transport Philosophy grew stronger. And why wouldn’t it? His life had never offered any evidence to the contrary.

Flash forward to the day that a corpse—white male, early thirties—was found in a compromising position with some perplexing patterns imprinted near his pubic region. While the whole of Scotland Yard seemed convinced that the markings were from ligatures relating directly to the man’s death, Sherlock wasn’t so sure. Though, try as he might to explain, Lestrade just refused to listen. _Moron!_

So, what was a consulting detective to do when proving he was right would require… actual proof? Ah, yes. Experiment.

Sherlock thought nothing of it when he strode into the closest Agent Provocateur to procure several pairs of knickers of varying design in the size which would best… accommodate him. Never mind the bill or the strange looks he received. He was proving a point, possibly at the expense of his own personal comfort. _How does one even put these on and where, pray tell, is this strip of fabric meant to go?_

Luckily, his horror had subsided by evening, and he was ready to begin his scientific process. With his bedroom door securely shut—this wasn’t something he felt like explaining to John—Sherlock slipped out of his clothes, including his pants. It was time to trade cotton for silk. After all, there was an investigation at stake.

As the cool, supple fabric slid effortlessly over his thighs and then hips, a strange feeling overcame him. When he tucked himself in, his oft silent member twitched in response to his touch. And it was all… peculiar. Sherlock had no time for such ponderings though, not when there was work to be done. So, he ignored the sensation and positioned himself as the case required—on his stomach, with his right leg hitched up and bent at the knee.

This wasn’t how he generally slept though, when and if he slept at all. It was foreign and uncomfortable. The elastic of the knickers was pulled tight and already digging into the right side of his groin, as expected, and he squirmed to alleviate it, even if only slightly. But, as he moved, he found more than comfort. The slide of satin between his sheets and skin was mercilessly indulgent, and his desire to rut against the sensation was overwhelming. This was new. 

With a generous helping of self-judgment, he ground his pelvis harder into the firm softness of his mattress. And as flaccidity began to lessen, length began to… lengthen.  Before long, he could feel the tip of his erection peeking out from beneath the decadent fabric.

 _Transport, transport, transport_ , he told himself, but the urge was just too strong. Fingers soon slipped under and curled around, knuckles dragging along and stretching the garment with each and every stroke. And, for the first time in his life, Sherlock was seeing himself the way that no one else ever had or would or could. He was experiencing himself from new angles and feeling the effects of his sexual nature he’d been so content to suppress for nigh on two decades.

As Sherlock neared climax, something which he had seldom experienced, it was different. Sure, he’d fumbled his way to completion a few times in the past, but it was always with a scientific purpose in mind. This time, though… this time lacked the burden of obligation, the clinical rigidity of scientific process. And his brain processed all of that and then some, everything and nothing all at once. Then his vision blew white as heat swirled in the pit of his stomach before bursting forth in a hot stream of ejaculate. The strangled noise that escaped his throat sounded foreign, and the whimper that followed close behind was even worse. And, though a million thoughts clouded his mind—investigating his response to unintended stimuli, cataloguing the data acquired, processing the chain of events that led from natural arousal to the ‘for pleasure only’ orgasm that followed—one nagging, ceaseless thought overshadowed all the rest: he already had a disturbingly strong inclination to do it again… soon.

Somewhere in the midst of his ponderings, Sherlock drifted off to sleep, sexually sated in a way he never knew he wanted to be. The next morning confirmed what he already knew. Marks near his groin, in nearly the same exact pattern as were observed on the corpse, served as proof of his (once again) superior intellect. Before peeling away the satin now adhered to his skin with his previous night’s release, he carefully lowered the elastic down his right hip to better expose the impression it left and quickly snapped a photo with his phone. He tossed the knickers aside, wrapped himself in a bed sheet, and headed for the shower with an air of giddy excitement that he’d soon be proving Lestrade wrong. He feared a day would come when he would tire of the redundancy of always being right, but if such a day was in the cards, it was not yet upon him.

Sherlock was dressed sharply—perhaps slightly more so than usual—and had a spring in his step as he nicked a bite of John’s toast and winced as he took a sip from the mug sitting beside it. Moments later, he was off out the door with scarcely even a word. He clutched his phone at his side and hailed a cab, anxious to offer his proof to the usual band of naysayers at the Met. This victory seemed particularly satisfying, though he never once stopped to consider that it might have less to do with his proof and more to do with feeling well-fucked for the first time in his life.

No sooner was Sherlock through the doors of Scotland Yard, he was at Lestrade’s side with his phone still in hand.  As his photographic evidence lit up the screen, Lestrade took it cautiously from his open palm. Sherlock was still prattling on about ‘right’ and ‘obvious’ and ‘funny little brains’ when the DI stopped him.

“What the hell am I even looking at here?”

“Proof! I needed to replicate the circumstances as accurately as possible, so I purchased several—”

“Jesus, Sherlock! Are you saying that this—” Lestrade cleared his throat, tipped the phone against his chest, and lowered his volume several notches. “Are you saying that this photo is of… you?”

“Obviously. The impressions might still be visible.” Sherlock reached to unbelt his trousers when Lestrade’s hand settled on his own to stop him.

“No! No.” Lestrade uncomfortably shifted his weight, practically squirming. “I mean, that’s not necessary.”

And in the realm of natural arousal resulting from unintended stimuli… well… that’s a story for another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that "story for another day" is actually a request I owe LadyElayne. Sherstrade + masturbation + voyeurism... a good time will be had by all. It'll happen eventually.


	3. Firsts Lead to Seconds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What? 9 days is a _really_ long time. Fuck you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some more of this thing I'm doing.

As the week dragged on, another victory of intellect under his belt and the disappointment of cotton under his trousers, Sherlock put thoughts of his recent successful sexual conquest—albeit a lone mission—out of his mind… mostly. Nine days. That’s how long he went before the urge for more became overwhelming to the point of distraction. And, well… being distracted could compromise his safety or, worse yet, his quality of work. And that was certainly an excuse good enough for another wank. _Excellent!_

It wasn’t until Sherlock made his way to his bedroom to search for the I-will-not-think-about-those knickers that he realised his dirty laundry, the pile in which they ended up, generally disappeared and re-appeared washed, folded, put away on a semi-regular basis. _Oh, god! John!_

They certainly weren’t where he left them. Nor were they in any of his drawers. But what was he supposed to do? Ask John if he’d seen a pair of semen soaked, satin knickers? No. Not for love or money… or even a much needed orgasm.

Then the proverbial light bulb flicked on above his head. He'd bought _multiple_ pairs. But where did he put the bloody bag? After some brief rummaging, he found them and wondered if there was actually some subconscious drive to hide one’s masturbatory tools under one’s bed even _befor_ e their function was discovered—because under the bed is precisely where he found them.

He flung the first pair—tulle was too scratchy.

And the second—lace was worse.

The third held his attention briefly, but the more rigid silk didn’t have enough stretch.

Fourth time’s a charm, or it was in this instance. _Ahhhh… satin!_

They were very low-slung briefs, and his already half-staff erection wasn’t going to fit properly within them, but he discarded his clothes and slipped them on as best he could anyway. Desperate times and all. Lying back across his bed, he peeked once more at the door to ensure it was shut.

Satisfied, he allowed his right hand to glide along the surface of the fabric, providing maddeningly little friction. That hand, the sadist that it was, didn’t even feel like it was within his realm of control. It seemed to move upon its own volition, as if it knew what he wanted more than his mind did. The whole situation would have torqued him off had his own body not been the perpetrator.

His thumb flicked across his glans on each upstroke, and he was already leaking like a broken faucet. If his hand was a sadist, his cock was certainly an eager masochist. _Traitors!_

Then, in the most sublime of all subconscious decisions in the history of the world—at least that’s how it felt at the time—his left hand was clutching the previously discarded silk garment and rubbing it across every centimeter of his exposed flesh.  It danced along the fine trail of dark hair the ascended from his groin and glanced across each nipple in turn. It glided up his chest to the tendon running the length of his outstretched neck and ended its journey clamped tightly between his teeth.

His abdominal muscles contracted and released as he stroked himself faster, and his hips snapped in time, facilitating him to better force his cock through his curled fist. The hand that had been holding the knickers now serving to muffle his broken cries and choked off sobs was once again free and its digits massaged torturously slow circles against his perineum, prodding and teasing at his fabric covered entrance. For the first time in his life, he desperately wanted more, and he was dreadfully underequipped to properly provide. But, in the end, it didn't matter.

He whined as the heat and weight of his release fell across his stomach, and— _oh, god_ —he needed that. _Wait! Since when?_ How was nine bloody days too long when most of twenty years hadn’t been?

He brushed the query aside and roughly yanked the silk from his mouth to better aid his panting. Still unsoiled, he tucked them under his pillow for later use and stopped only momentarily to ponder what his life had become. The pair he was still wearing… well… let’s just say they didn’t fare so well. After peeling them off, he reluctantly tossed them toward the small laundry pile that was once again accumulating, vowing to take care of it himself in the next day or so.

Needless to say, that day would never come. A case instead took its place. And… well… who has time for laundry when there’s a crime to be solved, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go on. Comment away. I'm rather enjoying this.
> 
> Also, I'm now saying it's probably 6 chapters. Maybe only 5, but probably 6. I hate myself.


	4. And Seconds to Thirds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all just coming so easily today. Hurr hurr. See what I did there?

The case was obvious. Too obvious. A jilted lover, multiple stab wounds, the deduction wrote itself. It took five days to prove it, but those five days were now ancient history, and idle cocks… er… hands. Yes, hands. Well… both really. They were… oh, never mind.

That’s when Sherlock remembered the laundry that he swore he’d wash himself. The laundry that had slipped his mind for most of a week. The laundry that was decidedly not where he left it… again.

What day was it? Wednesday? John, the creature of habit he was, generally did laundry on Wednesdays. Or, rather, clean laundry seemed to show up in Sherlock’s room on Thursdays. It seemed enough like a foregone conclusion. So, had John only recently collected the washing? Maybe he hadn’t found them yet? Maybe Sherlock could feign having forgotten something in a pocket and ask? Maybe… maybe… _Oh, to hell with it!_ Maybe be damned, he had to find out.

No sign of John in the parlour, and Sherlock would have heard the door open and close if he’d left. So, he took the stairs two at a time on his way up to John’s room and saw the door cracked as he approached.  However, what he saw through the crack was the last thing he expected to see.

Between door and frame came a sliver of light, and bathed in that light was a pre-occupied John Watson. With one pair of satin briefs fisted under his nose, the other was wrapped between hand and prick. His eyes were shut, tiny gasps escaping his lips, and Sherlock was almost sure he could smell John’s arousal hanging thickly in the air.

Sherlock’s eyes zeroed in on what he could see, focusing on whatever details were within his view. But his focus was sketchy, his knees feeling like they could give out at any minute. And, suddenly, Sherlock found yet another unexpected stimulus that garnered a similar effect. Though even just the visual of John masturbating seemed to cause a much more intense, visceral reaction than tactile stimulus of the fabric that had been driving him mad for a solid couple of weeks.

He thought about sneaking away, but the quiet hums and whimpers coming from John were too tempting, too intoxicating. Quietly, Sherlock unbelted his trousers and pressed his back to the cool wall next to John’s door.  As he lowered the elastic band of his rather dull pants to just below his bollocks, he chanced another glance at John, who moaned a little louder, as if on cue. And Sherlock shuddered pleasantly.

He licked a wide swath up his palm and wrapped his fist tightly around his cock, already standing at full attention from the sight before him. With his first stroke, he felt a pang of guilt. What would John think or say or feel? But, upon remembering that John had nicked his rather expensive satin knickers for purposes of self-pleasure, the guilt quickly faded away. He peeked through the crack again, just to burn the image into his mind as best he could, and shut his eyes tightly as his head came to rest on the wall behind him as well.

With each further flick and twist of his wrist, he had no need to think of the feeling of satin on his skin. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to John instead. And he found his imagination to be rather remarkable as he began mixing and matching body parts at will—the cock in Sherlock’s hand became John’s, but the hand wrapped around Sherlock’s shaft was John’s as well. The air was filled with John’s musk, and all Sherlock could see when he closed his eyes was sandy blond locks that were drenched in sweat and the ruddy head of an aching cock moving in and out of a soldier’s furiously pumping fist as he was being dragged desperately toward climax. Everything was John Watson, and nothing hurt.  

And, as John got louder, Sherlock moved faster. This wasn’t about savouring the moment; it was about finishing before he could be caught. By the time John’s muttering grew truly profane, Sherlock was already swallowing his own low grunts of pleasure that threatened to escape. Not long now.

Looking in one last time, Sherlock did something he knew he shouldn’t. He watched. John strung together some unintelligible bastardisation of the English language as he neared completion, and Sherlock was pinned in place by the beauty of his flatmate’s orgasm. So he stared with reckless abandon right through the end.

Muffling his own iterations with his fist, Sherlock caught his release in his other hand at nearly the same time John came with a shout. And it wasn’t until Sherlock tasted the tang of blood on his tongue that he realised his bottom lip had been caught between his thumb and teeth as well. John collapsed back onto the bed, and hurriedly, Sherlock tucked himself back into his clothes before scurrying off to the loo without a word.

That night, as he lay in bed, Sherlock pondered. This was, of course, nothing new. Sherlock always pondered. But the questions were new, and the answers were unknown. What would have happened if he’d entered John’s room? Or even just alerted John to his presence? What if he’d confronted John? Would they have ended up in bed together, sharing their orgasms a bit more organically? Or would it have strained their relationship to irreparable proportions? And, most importantly, did John even realise the knickers belonged to Sherlock? Or did he simply think they were remnants from one of his past conquests? The intel he lacked was important, and how he proceeded would depend upon those answers. But… those aren't questions you ask or answers you deduce. So, how the hell was he supposed to find out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... I'm... not even a little bit sorry.


	5. Questions and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ask and be answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have half of the last chapter. The other half isn't written yet. It will be, but... you might have to wait. Sorry. Life is hectic right now.

The answers Sherlock sought came sooner than expected, and they didn’t even require him to be particularly clever. Trust; no one was more surprised by that than him. But sometimes information just falls into one’s lap, or in this case, into one’s chest of drawers.

Only three short (read: very long) days after the… ‘hallway incident,’ the weapons of mass seduction—at least so far as the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street were concerned—reappeared in the proper drawer in Sherlock’s room with a note: _It’s fine. It’s all fine._

And there, firmly in his court, sat the ball.

He pondered for another two days before, late one night, putting one pair to good use. The end result was no longer surprising, but the journey, yet again, was. He didn’t focus on the fabric against his skin or the pressure and slide of his grip. Instead, he thought of John. That sliver of an image—the flexing of a thigh and biting of a lip, eyes screwed tightly shut as sweat beaded across a bronzed forehead —stolen through a barely-cracked door, was what brought him to the edge and tipped him over.

When he awoke in the morning, he waited impatiently—as if a Holmes knew any other way to wait—until John left for the surgery and made his way to his flatmate’s room. Locked doors were a thing of the past, and Sherlock had mostly, (somewhat?) sort of learned the concept of personal space. But today would be an exception—okay, okay… yet _another_ exception.

Slipping out of the abused satin garment, he placed it gingerly on John’s bed, and next to it, he placed a pre-written note in response: _I know it’s fine._

The desire to lie naked on the duvet, immersing himself in John’s scent, was enough to bring instantly bring him back to a half-aroused state. But no. There were other plans in the works, bigger and better plans. And off he went, back to Agent Provocateur, to procure something more… particular.

John’s return that evening proved uneventful. It was as if he were purposefully avoiding his room, just to watch Sherlock twitch. Perhaps telepathy would work. 

_Go. Go now, John. Go to your room; I demand it. Just GO!_

Perhaps not. Just as well, as the sentiment was a bit… forward. _Sherlock Holmes tries his hand—or, rather, mind—at telepathy… and fails._

John looked him, and for the briefest moment, Sherlock was practically convinced it had worked after all.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re acting… strange. Well… stranger than usual.”

Or maybe it was just because Sherlock hadn’t moved in a solid five minutes, and he could no longer confirm nor deny his status as a living, breathing creature. “It’s fine.” He shook his head. “ _I’m_ fine, I mean. Everything’s fine.”

“Right. I’ll… uh… I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

Sherlock gave a terse nod and retreated quickly to his own room to try and regain respiratory function. His hands were uncustomarily sweaty as he fingered the note, reading it just under his breath, “It’s fine. It’s all fine.” A deep inhale. “It’s fine. It’s all fine.” A heavy exhale. “It’s fine.” Inhaling again. “It’s all fine.” And exhaling.

But what if John was offended? What if he was on his way back down the stairs to ask what on earth Sherlock was playing at? What if he was disgusted? What if—

_Silence._

Sherlock checked his watch. Seven minutes. John had certainly found his… gift. No angry footfalls on the stairs. Not enraged.

Disgusted would be harder to discern. Perha—

_Click._

Was that the sound of John’s door being shut? It was faint, but… it had to be. _Now or never, Holmes._

His shopping bag from earlier was eyeing him, practically calling his name. And the garment inside… well…

The fuchsia satin slipped salaciously back and forth between his hands, the scalloped, fringed lace edging tickling his palm. He shed his more restrictive attire and slid them on, adjusting himself with more restraint than he’d exhibited in weeks. The plan was to wear that and nothing more, but doubt crept in. And doubt was something to which Sherlock Holmes was rather unaccustomed. The blue dressing gown would work nicely, in case his plan went pear-shaped. Because, let’s be honest, if any plan were doomed to fail, the plan to seduce John Watson—with little more than satin knickers and an erection—was a prime candidate.

Sherlock whipped on the gown and cinched it at the waist before cautiously ascending the stairs. The wood was cold on the soles of his bare feet, and every creak of every step gave him pause. But, as he neared, the sounds emanating from John’s room solidified that he probably wasn’t listening.

Low, soft whimpers escaped from the thin gap between the door and threshold. Sherlock’s hand actually trembled as he reached for the doorknob, and he only barely touched it, as if checking if there might be a fire on the other side. As quickly as he recoiled, you’d have thought there actually was.

 _Holmeses do_ not _get nervous_ , he told himself and opened the door before he changed his mind.

John sat, once again, on the edge of his bed, flies open and erection in hand. He tried his best to quickly cover himself with the previously provided… gift. “Sherlock! What the—”

“You—” Sherlock voice cracked, and he chastised himself for it. “You said if I needed you—”

“Yes.” John paused for a deep breath and to massage away the tension at his temple. “I suppose I did. I expected you’d knock first, as I’m…” He shot a disconcerted look toward his shoddily covered and obviously flagging erection. “Can’t it wait?”

For the first time in Sherlock’s life, so far as he could recall, he was at a loss for words. Though, he didn’t really recall much of anything in that moment—including the year, their address, or even his own name. _Sh… sh… shit!_ He really didn’t remember. _Shut up! Shake your head… now!_

And Sherlock— _yes, that was it_ —assumed he must have done it, because John replied, “Fine! What? What’s so important it can’t wait?”

Since silence had served him well once already, he gave it another try. Swallowing hard around the rather large lump of anxiety in his throat, he unbelted his dressing gown and let it fall to the floor.

“Oh,” John breathed.

“I’m…” Sherlock felt nothing but scrutiny and shame, neither of which was he very fond or familiar. “I’ll… go.” He turned and stooped to retrieve his fallen cover. But, even with his back turned, he could hear the weight of John’s jaw as it dropped and previously stilled breathing as it hitched with a squeak. That’s when he remembered the ten or so peek-a-boo cutouts, between fabric and lace, that were placed symmetrically along both leg lines—the ones John, as best he could tell, was only just discovering.

“Don’t.”

And Sherlock didn’t. He froze, stone still.

The floor creaked as John presumably rose and walked. There’s wasn’t much space between them to begin with, and it seemed as if he didn’t take any more steps than were strictly necessary to close that distance. When the footfalls ceased, John’s body warmth made his distance, or lack thereof, easily deducible. He was obviously close—close enough for each exhale to ripple Sherlock’s skin into goose flesh—and heat was absolutely radiating off of him.

“Leave it and stand.”

Sherlock did both, still facing away.

The heat lessened minutely as John must have taken a step back, but the intensity of his gaze was still palpable. “My god. Look at you.”

Another rise in temperature, though it was concentrated on either side of his ribcage this time.

Sherlock’s arms were wrapped in a pseudo-hug around his torso—a stance even he would have called guarded—and he couldn’t seem to let go. The drive to flee was almost as strong as the desire to be touched, for the heat from John’s palms to scorch his skin. And then that warmth slipped down the length of his body as John went to his knees.

Sherlock could see John’s fingers flexing and releasing on either side of his hips, as if he could do little more than contemplate making contact. Then, the pads of John’s thumbs simultaneously brushed across two patches of Sherlock’s skin, exposed through the garment’s cutouts. The shallow, shaky breath that followed would have been embarrassing under any other circumstances.

He didn’t move, waiting and wondering what would come next. Arms wrapped up and around, hands pressed flat against his abs, fingernails gingerly raking along his skin as the hold receded. They stopped at his thighs, those same nails biting into his flesh. Thumbs massaged circles where leg met arse. Then came the sharp sting of teeth as they sank into an exposed portion of Sherlock’s right cheek and the prickle of five o’clock shadow. He yelped, followed quickly by the low rumble of a moan.

John released his bite and spun Sherlock, looking up at him with a degree of affection he hadn’t seen before. “You. are. gorgeous.”

Sherlock stared down, fought back a smile. He finally relaxed his arms, let his hand settle on John’s head, and ran his fingers through the sandy-blond locks. “I was concerned my presumptuousness may have upset y—ahhhh.”

His concerns were cut short when he felt a gentle nuzzling against his groin. John lapped and mouthed at the tightly packed, fuchsia-clad bulge in front of him, and the wet heat of his breath and saliva sent a shiver coursing through Sherlock’s body. When he pulled away, air immediately chilled the dampened fabric.

“Jesus fuck.” John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s hipbone. His voice was reduced to a barely audible whisper. “What am I doing?”

“I can go if you’d prefer.”

John chuckled. “If I’d prefer. That’s… uh… no. I’d prefer you in that bed before I come to my senses and change my bloody mind.”

“I don’t want you doing anything you may come to regr—”

John pointed. “Bed, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the end will come soon. I'm also editing a novel. And running a convention.
> 
> Edit:  
> These: http://www.agentprovocateur.com/us-main-nav/lingerie/knickers/info/lavelle-brief~fuchsia
> 
> If you aren't looking at the photo of the back, you're doing it wrong. If you're doing it wrong, I'm judging you. You're welcome.


	6. Comings and Goings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they finally fuck... each other... directly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long. Forgive me!

Sherlock took a seat and waited, watching intently as John stripped off his shirt and dropped his trousers to the floor. He had obviously taken the time to cover himself while Sherlock’s back was turned, but his once-flagging erection seemed to have returned to its previously erect state. At least, it had if its distinct outline under the cloth of his pants was anything by which to judge.

John approached the bed, planting one knee on either side of Sherlock’s so-very-pale-in-comparison thighs. The next few seconds were pregnant with possibility, a build-up on potential energy just waiting to become kinetic. As lips neared and met for the first time, kinetic it became. Then from kinetic to frenetic, with a pinch of desperation for added flare.

Before Sherlock even processed what was happening, he was on his back, John maneuvering himself above on all fours, knees near shoulders and hands near hips. And it tickled as he nosed at the fine, dark trail from navel to groin. Wet, open-mouthed kisses paved his journey, and the heat from one palm traced the deep V that led downward from Sherlock’s hip.

Though Sherlock couldn’t see much, he could feel. Oh, could he feel. Two fingers slipped beneath the fabric, first tracing perineum to cleave and then cleave to bollocks. Sherlock’s entire body was instantly covered in goose flesh, and he grew ever more intoxicated by the scent of John’s arousal now looming only a few centimeters from his face. He wanted to reach out, to touch, to grab, but his arms were pinned in place by John’s knees.

Wriggling down a bit until he was free to bend at the elbow, he… well… he did precisely that. Fingers hooked and gripped and dug, whatever it took to keep hold of his previously elusive prize. He pawed frantically at John’s pants, driven by an incessant need to toss them aside. But, when they finally fell, they made it only far enough to stretch across the good doctor’s thighs. That would have to do.

He squeezed and spread, admired and anticipated. A cursory lick halted all movement from above, including respiratory functions and the digital ministrations that had somehow receded into the realm of white noise. The last breath he heard was sharp and sounded like it was sucked in through clenched teeth, and the muscles beneath his palms had gone rigid.

One hand rounded from back to front, finding John’s newly-freed erection and offering a slow, timid stroke. Muscles relaxed, accompanied by a whimper-whine, and Sherlock considered the sound equivalent to enthusiastic consent. And when John returned to his previous pursuits, they once again became little more than peripheral sensations, because Sherlock was diving headlong into new territory, an adventure sure to be rife with experimentation and data collection. But, greedy maw enveloped needy glans just as pointed tongue pressed against puckered flesh, and John’s long, low moan reverberated through Sherlock’s prick, up his body, and sent his brain into ‘Data? What’s data?’ mode for the first time in… ever.

Things that once mattered stopped. Things like the scientific method behind controlling a stimulus and recording a response. Or exploring the wrong way to accomplish a task in order to better understand the right way.

And things that had never mattered… oh, they certainly mattered now. Such as the newly developing Redundancy Principle, repeating an action once the reaction becomes conclusively known, which would also be known as the When-I-lap-at-this-specific-spot-John-bucks-so-hard-he-nearly-breaks-my-nose-and-for-whatever-reason-I-like-it Factor.

Another thing that had ceased to matter: not caring why a potential broken nose wasn’t seen as even remotely problematic.

So, when John sat back hard, his nearly-full weight shoving Sherlock’s head into the mattress so deep that his hearing went muffled and his air supply was all but lost, it was fine. It was all still fine. Because breathing was so very boring when the alternative was a mouthful of writhing John Watson.  And what he was doing didn’t matter. Why he was doing it mattered even less. The only pertinent point of consideration was how to make John jerk and twitch and squirm. Who needed air when so much satisfaction was on offer?  Death was an inevitability of life, and what a way to go.

 It was only a few seconds—though probably drawn out a bit longer than if Sherlock hadn’t been so eager to provide a distraction—before the heat and weight of John’s body receded and air promptly flooded Sherlock’s lungs. He gasped without meaning to, his will to live obviously still intact despite his willingness to leave the world a happy man. Perhaps, on some level, he knew what was next.

John flipped himself around, once again front-to-front and face-to-face. He’d already managed to slip a thin, latex sheath down Sherlock’s length, and he stroked it with a lubed palm. A slight shift in Sherlock’s position resulted in a slow burn as the hem of his knickers, which had been tucked under his bollocks and against his perineum, pulled and tugged against his skin. He lifted his hips high, taking John with them, and resettled in a more comfortable position. Then, gathering his doctor in his arms, he shifted once again to sit with the headboard at his back.

John took another few strokes, both erections barely contained in one strained fist, and then rose, positioned him, and sank back down. The heat was unimaginable, the tightness unbearable. Sherlock barely registered what was happening as his eyes threatened to roll back in his head. Then the sharp sting of a bite just above his left clavicle. He yelped.

“Sorry, love,” John breathed, licking across the dental impression serving as proof of his transgression. “Couldn’t let it end before it started.”

And, while it should have come as nothing more than an explanation, it instead came as a challenge. A challenge which would later be regarded as a game—a game called, ‘Who came first… and how?’

The smug smirk should have given him away, but John probably wasn’t observing. He didn’t at the best of times, and he was probably even less observant with what Sherlock made sure was a battering ram of a cock knocking repeatedly into his prostate. That was his move for round one.

Round two was meant to confound, so he dove mouth first into the marred tissue of an age-old bullet wound. He soothed and sucked, tonguing it with fervor and, with a sidelong glance, relished the look of lust-addled shock on the face of his ‘always prepared for anything (except that)’ soldier. Doctorly hands soon fisted into detectively curls, and Sherlock’s nose was once again crushed against the smooth flesh above a sensitive pucker. Breathing was still boring, and _John. was. beautiful._

When round three came, so did John. The skilled fingers of a violinist wrapped expertly around a neglected erection, and five strokes were all that was required. Ejaculate spilled hot and sticky across Sherlock’s fist, and he fought through the spasms around his own cock, because winning would never fail to be exciting. Sherlock licked his fingers clean, and John shot another stream that seemed to surprise them both equally.

Seconds later, John was on his back, legs over Sherlock’s shoulders, and being pounded relentlessly into the mattress. _Yes. Oh, yes._ Sherlock grunted and groaned, fingernails biting crescent moons into John’s thighs.

His orgasm started slow, tiny tendrils of excitement snaking and curling into every nook and cranny in his body. They tingled and teased, lulling him into a false sense of security before tightening around his heart and lungs. They grew hot and squeezed, causing the blood to pulse harder in every vein and artery in his body. The hammering of his heart pounded in his ears, and desire twisted in the pit of his stomach. The drive to release outweighed his drive to survive, and he’d have continued even at the expense of his own life. Instead of dying, he came with a shout that sounded a lot like a name, and collapsed next to the man whose name he now knew could sound a lot like a shout.

Sherlock discarded the condom and snapped the waistband of his knickers back into place before a chorus of breathy giggles sounded.

“How did you, um, choose those?” John nodded toward the fuchsia satin.

“Our history of punctuating important moments in our relationship with a frankly alarming shade of pink made them an obvious choice. I suppose you could call it sentiment.”

“Good thing that’s over. I’m not sure I’ll ever react appropriately to the colour again.”

“Speaking of again…”

“Mm?”

“Will we…?”

“Oh, god, yes. But not before a shower and some takeaway.”

But the shower directly followed a nap, and ‘again’ came before the takeaway. And once more after, when they found a riding crop and a pair of heels that Sherlock had once used for a case. But that is another story for another day, and you’ll simply have to use your imaginations until then!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it was at least mildly worth the wait... or something!

**Author's Note:**

> I loooooooove youuuuuuuu, Amber! I hope it's okay!


End file.
